


The Terror Games

by sleepingwithghosts



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Other, Panem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingwithghosts/pseuds/sleepingwithghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate Panem universe, one where the mockingjay never existed, the Hunger Games have continued on. Following her victory in the 93rd annual Hunger Games, Vienna Manning has been a puppet of the capitol. Her family has deserted her, her fiance has abandoned her, and her only two friends in the world, other victors, are just as depressed as she is. And now comes the centennial, the 100th annual Hunger Games. Following a grand surprise for the centennial, the games will begin, bringing about a new world of horror, brutality, and sheer torture that no Hunger Games has ever come close to reaching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Terror Games

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for stopping by! Please note that I am not an expert on the Hunger Games series, nor do I wish to spend hours researching little details. Please forgive any inaccuracies, I want this project to be fun and not tedious. I really hope you like it.

* * *

As I lean against the window of the lightning fast train, I shut my eyes. I remember the first time I rode this train. I didn’t even notice the golden ground and crimson trees of the Pappillon Forest that we blazed through. I was staring through the glass, looking, but not seeing. All I saw was the fear in my head. My imminent death. But then there was the eventual ride back, the one I never expected to take. The return to District 1 after my victory. That’s what people call it. Victory. I was the last survivor of the self-massacre of twenty four kids. I killed three myself. And they call that victory.

It’s disgusting.

I shut my eyes as the train begins to slow. And within minutes, I’m back in the place I used to call home. Beside me, Bijou Foswell, District 1’s capitol representative, and the worst person I’ve ever met in the world, stands up.

“Ahh, here at last. My bum was starting to go numb. What a long ride.”

“It was _two hours_ ,” I say in that blank bitterness I’ve all but perfected. My eyes narrow slightly, as they always tend to do. I’m not sure whether its from pure exhaustion or just not caring about a damn thing anymore.

Bijou lets out a huff of air as she heads out the door. “When will you come to realize darling? What you have is a precious gift.”

I’m not sure what she’s referring to, and frankly, I don’t want to know. I don’t need another reason to want to shove her into a meat grinder.

District 1’s train station is massive. It’s an impossibly big white brick building. Some call it Cloud Station. I call it the gate between hell and earth. The station is packed with people, and many of them smile and wave, some even clap. I fake a smile as I pass. Just outside the station, a driver is waiting for me, standing outside a completely unnecessary limo. He opens the door, and I ease myself inside wordlessly.

Once he is driving us through the streets, I throw my head back against the firm seat, shutting my eyes.

“Welcome back Miss Vienna. The districts been missing you.”

For some reason, I find that funny. “Thank you,” I say politely.

“How long are you staying? We seem to be seeing less and less of you these days.”

“I’m just here for the reaping,” I say with a sadness in my voice.

“The centennial quell, big year. I wonder what the capitol has cooked up this time,” he says. All the formalities have melted away from his voice, leaving behind a bitter taste. I don’t know this drivers name, but I’ve seen him around. I know he has two children. Parents are always the most bitter.

No, I take that back. The ones who are even more bitter are the couples who want to be parents. Basic human instinct is overridden to prevent the upbringing of children into a world that threatens to destroy them.

How much worse can the world possibly get?

I live in victors village. It’s the wealthiest part of the district, on the highest hill in the Cavalier Forest, overlooking the mining valley, the caves of diamonds. The twenty mansions, enclosed in trees, giving us a private residence, are each unique and beautiful, though they feel grey. Dismal. I live in the fourth. I’m the seventeenth and most recent victor of District 1. The oldest is Breton Sable, 74. She’s blind, and has round the clock nursing care. The second is Alecto Warzee. His house is across from mine, and when I’m home, I often see him sitting on the swing on his front porch. There’s no view, only my home and the trees behind it. He just sits, staring blankly. He reminds me of myself. I can recall at least four days in the capitol when I’ve simply woken up to the sun rising, and have lost all hours of daylight deep in thought without even realizing. It’s why we’ve lost the other three victors who should be living. One hung himself, the other two were killed in driving accidents. Lost in thoughts.

As I step out of the limo, I see Warzee sitting on his porch. I’m almost surprised to see him there. It’s as though nothing has changed. I eye him thoughtfully until the car drives off. Warzee then waves me over with little enthusiasm.

I stroll into his yard with no life in my step.

“You’re back,” Warzee says, as if he’s surprised.

I nod blandly. “For the interview, and the reaping.”

He slowly stands up and disappears into his home. He returns a moment later with a bottle of fireball whiskey. I step up onto his porch, and he hands me the bottle. It’s full, unopened, and cold. He doesn’t touch the stuff, he’s a beer guy. But he knows its my favorite.

We sit down at his porch table in his padded chairs. He takes a swig of his half-empty beer and then lights a cigar. It’s a thick musky one, expensive, with a unique smell. It smells like him. My mentor, the one who helped me through the horror of the hunger games.

“I didn’t think you’d actually be coming,” Warzee says. “You tend to be a no show.”

I take a long swig of whiskey, savoring the burning sensation through my throat. “You know how the capitol is,” I say blankly. My voice is dead. “Are they still threatening you?”

“They’ve got nothing left to threaten me with. They want my life? **Take it.** They threatened you, but they’d never follow through. You’re too valuable to them,” he says distantly.

I know he’s right.

“How’s Sable?” I ask nervously.

Warzee pauses. His eyes drop to his lap. “She’s blind now. Clawed her eyes out in her sleep.”

My heart sinks. “What did she say?”

He still won’t look at me. “You know she doesn’t talk to me about that.”

My heart sinks even more.

We sit on his porch, drinking and talking like old friends. A few hours later, when we’re both bubbly and nearly smiling, a car rolls up. Out steps Bijou, and Tortuga Lycan. Tortuga is my stylist. He supported me through the games seven years ago and has been a faithful friend ever since. He is the only stylist I will even let near me. He’s tall and fit, with the capitols quietest trendy clothes, and a plain haircut. He’s far against the fashion nonsense, believing in none of it, and his work reflects it, which I enjoy. He makes me wonderful clothes to wear, but he doesn’t sugar coat it. He takes great care to make sure I look nothing like a woman of the capitol.

He jogs from the car, waving happily. I haven’t seen him in a few months, and in my dazed state, I nearly toss my whiskey into Warzee’s lap.

“Tuga!” I say happily, jumping to my feet. I sway a little, and he steadies me as I throw my arms around him. He’s also one of the only people I allow to hug me.

“Easy doll, the feature is in three hours,” he says with a smirk.

“Fuck the feature.”

He can’t even argue with that. “Yeah, probably right.”

He whisks past Bijou’s explosion of complaints and lays out Warzee’s clothes on his bed. The two have come to an agreement. Warzee has no interest in being dressed like a “glorified Barbie” as he called it. So Warzee leaves him to fend for himself, other than his wardrobe.

Just as Bijou is going on about us being drunk out of our minds and useless to converse with, Tortuga ushers me to my own home. I haven’t stepped inside it in over six months. The cleaners have kept the place spotless. It’s massive, with a grand entry hall, expensive chandeliers, and a vintage feel. Every time I come back, everything is exactly the same. It’s probably the only stability in my whole world.

“How’s my girl doing?” Tortuga asks as we enter my massive bathroom. I shut the door as he places his bag on the back of the door and begins to open it.

“Oh you know, wonderful,” I say sarcastically.

Tortuga shakes his head. “I’m going to put a stop to this,” he says angrily.

“Don’t… They won’t listen, and they’ll probably have your head for meddling. Don’t throw your life away.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. But he knows better than to argue with me. He’s the one capitol resident who will never win an argument with me. He’s also the only one who plays by the rules.

From his bag, he pulls out a shimmering blazer. It’s a half sleeve. The entire fabric is printed with the vibrant colors of a forest in the dead of night, glistening with a purple galactic mist and sharp glowing stars. As the fabric moves, the stars blink, creating reflections on the raindrops clinging to the discarded leaves on the forest floor.

“Holy… Crap…” I say in awe, reaching out to touch the soft fabric. Tortuga smiles widely.

“The proudest piece I’ve ever made.”

I look behind him to see a pair of plain black dress pants with a slight sheen to them. Probably my favorite thing about Tortuga is that he understands. The capitol sees me as nothing but a sex object, and he knows how to dress me to really piss them off. Layers, pants, jackets, sweaters, high necklines… Any dress he puts me in is one with so much detail and darkness that its impossible to make any sense of the shape of my body.

I drop my clothes. When it comes to Tortuga, I lost all sense of modesty way back before the games. He knows every freckle and crevice on my body. I’m so relaxed around him that I don’t even think about it. Also, the fact that I'm still pretty drunk helps.

His eyes narrow as he watches me bend over to slip the pants on. “You’re thinner.”

“I’ve been working out.”

“You haven’t been eating,” he says, certain that he’s correct.

I shrug. “Maybe if I starve myself enough they’ll dump me in a hospital for a while.”

“That’s not a goal, that’s a sin,” he says angrily. I know its not me he’s angry with. It’s the people who _own_ me.

Once I’m dressed, I sit down in a chair while he styles my hair. Straight but deceiving, whipping in each direction. Messy but precisely placed. My makeup is minimal, And my lip colour is light enough that there’s no clear shape that stands out against my skin.

I fucking love Tortuga.

A few hours later, the camera crews arrive. Warzee joins me in my living room in front of the chrome fireplace. The crew fiddles with the sofa, sitting exactly where it was for the interview last year. I never touch it. I can’t bring myself to just sit and rest. On the rare occasions I am home, I find solace in my secret hiding places.

Once they’ve adjusted the sofa three centimeters in each direction and have accepted that its fine, Warzee and I sit down. I lean against the arm rest and fold my legs.

“Tortuga’s outdone himself,” Warzee says. He fiddles with the cuff of his blazer, similar to mine, though starless with a sunrise.

Another limo arrives, bigger and grander than the others. One of the crew members give us the five second warning, and suddenly the room erupts with a cheerful background music. In walks Caesar Flickerman, dressed in an outrageous tie dye pantsuit. He is already being filmed for the live stream as he steps into my home.

“Helloooo Panem! Welcome, welcome, to the home of the capitols doll, Vienna Manning!” The camera pans in for a close shot. “I’m here today with both Vienna and Warzee, and I am very excited! Hello, hello!” He says excitedly as the camera’s pan in on us. Caesar shakes Warzee’s hand firmly, and he exchanges a formal smile. Caesar then pulls me in to a hug that I don’t want. I put on a good face and smile.

Caesar sits down across from us, and the cameras settle around.

“ _My, my,_ Warzee, it appears that age is taking its toll,” Caesar says with a playful smile.

“I could say the same Caesar,” Warzee says blandly. Warzee doesn’t play into the game. He doesn’t care.

Caesar disregards his comment and turns his attention on me. “And Vienna, you’re looking as pretty and petite as ever. But I do think your stylist should rethink all these layers. Can we at least see you in a dress?” He asks hopefully, teasing.

“I’ve always hated dresses, as I’ve told you time and time again, Caesar,” I say playfully. I can’t be rude, I must be proper and humorous.

Caesar sighs dramatically. “A man can dream.” He then snaps out of his ruse and continues with the interview. “So, the 100th hunger games, the centennial, are you both excited?” He asks eagerly.

I can see Warzee’s fist at the corner of my eye, resting in his lap. It whitens with tension. “It’s definitely going to be an interesting year, that’s for sure. I’m not quite sure what to expect.”

“The centennial has been in the planning for four years now. I've got a feeling it's going to be **HUGE.** What do you think, Vienna?”

“I’ll just be glad to help the tributes in any way that I can.”

“Any whispers from the capitol? What we can expect?”

“None that I’ve heard,” I say simply.

“I hear you’ve been speaking to Vantyl. We all want to know. Is a potential mend on the horizon?”

The question sends a pang through my heart. It’s a total lie, just to stir me up. But I have to keep my composure.

“I’m afraid not, Caesar.”

Caesar frowns. “Pity. We were all so excited to see you win. And that proposal, at the closing ceremonies, it was the most romantic thing any of us had ever seen, even if the engagement did stretch for six years. I’m sorry that it didn’t work out,” he says sincerely.

That’s probably what I hate most about Caesar Flickerman. No matter what bullshit spews out of his mouth, he’s still so hard to hate. And still I hate him. It's a shitty paradox.

\--

Later that evening, I slip through the dark street over to Sable’s home. Her care aid lets me in, and brings me to her. She’s sitting in her living room by a roaring fire. She’s not the same Sable I remember. A year has changed her. The age lines on her face have doubled in depth. Her skin is thick and rough, and her hair has turned from a silky silver to a grey frizzy mess. But the worst are her eyes. Her lids were removed, and in place of her eyes are two shimmering orbs, solid green in colour, matching the shade of her eyes I remember so well, the ones who helped me cope through the most horrific fear of my life. Life after the games...

“Hi Sable,” I say in my singsong voice. She always brings it out of me. Sable melts my heart in every way. She’s such a sweet lady.

Sable perks right up from what could’ve even been a deep sleep for all I know. “Vienna my dear, is that you?”

“It’s me,” I say softly.

Her hands extend towards the sound of my voice, and I remain still as her hands dance across my face, confirming my identity. Her palms smell of tobacco.

“I’ve missed you my dear. It’s lonely without you here,” she says with a deep grin, removing her hand from my face. She turns to face me, but she doesn’t see me. It’s heartbreaking.

“I’ve missed you too. God I wish I could bring you to the capitol with me.”

Sable’s smile fades away. “I know darling, _I know_ … It won’t be forever…”

I’ve never told Sable. I’ve never outright told anyone. But she knows. She went through the same thing. It was only once she grew old and wrinkled that they’d had enough of her. It terrifies me to think about, that this will be my life, until I’m old enough to be a grandmother.

“How’s Warzee doing?” I ask.

“About the same. But the capitols backed off. They’ve got nothing left on him now.”

This is how we are. We’re a triad of back doors. There’s no sense in asking “How are you doing?” We always go around. Because no matter how much we want to believe it, we’re not okay. We never will be. But we’ll never admit that to ourselves.

It hurts too much.


End file.
